W hen I was eighteen years old, I came home from a sleepover and found my mom and dad with their throats cut, and their hearts ripped from their chests.
My little brother Danny was in a broom closet in the kitchen, his arms wrapped around his knees, and his face pale and ghostly. Until that day, I’d planned to go to college and study medicine after graduation, but instead, I ended up staying home and taking care of my seven-year-old brother.
Seventeen years later, my brother was murdered. At the time, Danny’s death looked like it would go unsolved, much like my parents’ had.
Without Haze Kinsey, my best friend since we were five, the killers would have gotten away with it. She was a special agent for the FBI for almost a decade, and when I called her about Danny’s death, she dropped everything to come help me get him justice. The evil group of witches and Shifters responsible for the decimation of my family paid with their lives.
Yes. I said witches and Shifters. Did I forget to mention I’m a werecougar? Oh, and my friend Hazel is a witch. Recently, I discovered witches in my own family tree on my mother’s side. Shifters, in general, only mated with Shifters, but witches were the exception. As a matter of fact, my friend Haze is mated to a bear Shifter.
I wouldn’t have known about the witch in my genealogy, though, if a rogue witch coven hadn’t done some funky hoodoo witchery to me. Apparently, the spell activated a latent talent that had been dormant in my hybrid genes.
My ancestor’s magic acted like truth serum to anyone who came near her. No one could lie in her presence. Lucky me, my ability was a much lesser form of hers. People didn’t have to tell me the truth, but whenever they were around me, they had the compulsion to overshare all sorts of private matters about themselves. This can get seriously uncomfortable for all parties involved. Like, the fact that I didn’t need to know that Janet Strickland had been wearing the same pair of underwear for an entire week, or that Mike Dandridge had sexual fantasies about clowns.
My newfound talent made me unpopular and unwelcome in a town full of paranormal creatures who thrived on little deceptions. So, when Haze discovered the whereabouts of my dad’s brother, a guy I hadn’t known even existed, I sold all my belongings, let the bank have my parents’ house, jumped in my truck, and headed south.
After two days and 700 miles of nonstop gray, snowy weather, I pulled my screeching green and yellow mini-truck into an auto repair shop called The Rusty Wrench. Much like my beloved pickup, I’d needed a new start, and moving to a small town occupied by humans seemed the best shot. I’d barely made it to Moonrise, Missouri before my truck began its death throes. The vehicle protested the last 127 miles by sputtering to a halt as I rolled her into the closest spot.
The shop was a small white-brick building with a one-car garage off to the right side. A black SUV and a white compact car occupied two of the six parking spots.
A sign on the office door said: No Credit Cards. Cash Only. Some Local Checks Accepted (Except from Earl—You Know Why, Earl! You check-bouncing bastard).
A man in stained coveralls, wiping a greasy tool with a rag, came out the side door of the garage. He had a full head of wavy gray hair, bushy eyebrows over light blue, almost colorless eyes, and a minimally lined face that made me wonder about his age. I got out of the truck to greet him.
“Can I help you, miss?” His voice was soft and raspy with a strong accent that was not quite Deep South.
“Yes, please.” I adjusted my puffy winter coat. “The heater stopped working first. Then the truck started jerking for the last fifty miles or so.”
He scratched his stubbly chin. “You could have thrown a rod, sheared the distributor, or you have a bad ignition module. That’s pretty common on these trucks.”
I blinked at him. I could name every muscle in the human body and twelve different kinds of viruses, but I didn’t know a spark plug from a radiator cap. “And that all means…”
“If you threw a rod, the engine is toast. You’ll need a new vehicle.”
“Crap.” I grimaced. “What if it’s the other thingies?”
The scruffy mechanic shrugged. “A sheared distributor is an easy fix, but I have to order in the part, which means it won’t get fixed for a couple of days. Best-case scenario, it’s the ignition module. I have a few on hand. Could get you going in a couple of hours, but…” he looked over my shoulder at the truck and shook his head, “…I wouldn’t get your hopes up.”
I must’ve looked really forlorn because the guy said, “It might not need any parts. Let me take a look at it first. You can grab a cup of coffee across the street at Langdon’s One-Stop.”
He pointed to the gas station across the road. It didn’t look like much. The pale-blue paint on the front of the building looked in need of a new coat, and the weather-beaten sign with the store’s name on it had seen better days. There was a car at the gas pumps and a couple more in the parking lot, but not enough to call it busy.
I’d had enough of one-stops, though, thank you. The bathrooms had been horrible enough to make a wereraccoon yark, and it took a lot to make those garbage eaters sick. Besides, I wasn’t just passing through Moonrise, Missouri.
“Have you ever heard of The Cat’s Meow Café?” Saying the name out loud made me smile the way it had when Hazel had first said it to me. I’d followed my GPS into town, so I knew I wasn’t too far away from the place.
“Just up the street about two blocks, take a right on Sterling Street. You can’t miss it. I should have some news in about an hour or so, but take your time.”
“Thank you, Mister…”
“Greer.” He shoved the tool in his pocket. “Greer Knowles.”
“I’m Lily Mason.”
“Nice to meet ya,” said Greer. “The place gets hoppin’ around noon. That’s when church lets out.”
I looked at my phone. It was a little before noon now. “Good. I could go for something to eat. How are the burgers?”
“Best in town,” he quipped.
I laughed. “Good enough.”
Even in the sub-freezing temperature, my hands were sweating in my mittens. I wasn’t sure what had me more nervous, leaving the town I grew up in for the first time in my life or meeting an uncle I’d never known existed.
I crossed a four-way intersection. One of the signs was missing, and I saw the four-by-four post had snapped off at its base. I hadn’t noticed it on my way in. Crap. Had I run a stop sign? I walked the two blocks to Sterling. The diner was just where Greer had said. A blue truck, a green mini-coup, and a sheriff’s SUV were parked out front.
An alarm dinged as the glass door opened to The Cat’s Meow. Inside, there was a row of six booths along the wall, four tables that seated four out in the open floor, and counter seating with about eight cushioned black stools. The interior décor was rustic country with orange tabby kitsch everywhere. A man in blue jeans and a button-down shirt with a string tie sat in the nearest booth. A female police officer sat at a counter chair sipping coffee and eating a cinnamon roll. Two elderly women, one with snowball-white hair, the other a dyed strawberry-blonde, sat in a back booth.
The white poof-headed lady said, “This egg is not over-medium.”
“Well, call the mayor,” said Redhead. “You’re unhappy with your eggs. Again.”
“See this?” She pointed at the offending egg. “Slime, right here. Egg snot. You want to eat it?”
“If it’ll make you shut up about breakfast food, I’ll eat it and lick the plate.”
A man with copper-colored hair and a thick beard, tall and well-muscled, stepped out of the kitchen. He wore a white apron around his waist, and he had on a black T-shirt and blue jeans. He held a plate with a single fried egg shining in the middle.
The old woman with the snowy hair blushed, her thin skin pinking up as he crossed the room to their table. “Here you go, Opal. Sorry ’bout the mix-up on your egg.” He slid the plate in front of her. “This one is pure perfection.” He grinned, his broad smile shining. “Just like you.” He winked.
Opal giggled.
The redhead rolled her eyes. “You’re as easy as the eggs.”
“Oh, Pearl. You’re just mad he didn’t flirt with you.”
As the women bickered over the definition of flirting, the cook glanced at me. He seemed startled to see me there. “You can sit anywhere,” he said. “Just pick an open spot.”
“I’m actually looking for someone,” I told him.
“Who?”
“Daniel Mason.” Saying his name gave me a hollow ache. My parents had named my brother Daniel, which told me my dad had loved his brother, even if he didn’t speak about him.
The man’s brows rose. “And why are you looking for him?”
I immediately knew he was a werecougar like me. The scent was the first clue, and his eyes glowing, just for a second, was another. “You’re Daniel Mason, aren’t you?”
He moved in closer to me and whispered barely audibly, but with my Shifter senses, I heard him loud and clear. “I go by Buzz these days.”
“Who’s your new friend, Buzz?” the policewoman asked. Now that she was looking up from her newspaper, I could see she was young.
He flashed a charming smile her way. “Never you mind, Nadine.” He gestured to a waitress, a middle-aged woman with sandy-colored hair, wearing a black T-shirt and a blue jean skirt. “Top off her coffee, Freda. Get Nadine’s mind on something other than me.”
“That’ll be a tough ’un, Buzz.” Freda laughed. “I don’t think Deputy Booth comes here for the cooking.”
“More like the cook,” the elderly lady with the light strawberry-blonde hair said. She and her friend cackled.
The policewoman’s cheeks turned a shade of crimson that flattered her chestnut-brown hair and pale complexion. “Y’all mind your Ps and Qs.”
Buzz chuckled and shook his head. He turned his attention back to me. “Why is a pretty young thing like you interested in plain ol’ me?”
I detected a slight apprehension in his voice.
“If you’re Buzz Mason, I’m Lily Mason, and you’re my uncle.”
The man narrowed his dark-emerald gaze at me. “I think we’d better talk in private.”